Batman 1939: Swimming in the Styx
by Stewart M
Summary: August, 1941. On the streets of Gotham City, they say the Four Families are untouchable, and no one is more dangerous than Batman. Tonight, both these myths are about to be shattered. The first by the Dark Knight himself. The second by a myth far older than the City. One of the deep myths - fearsome, and unrelenting, and wondrous.
1. Strange Bedfellows

_All__ claims are DC. Please enjoy. Reviews humbly appreciated._

**Batman 1939: Swimming in the Styx**

**Chapter 1: Strange Bedfellows**

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><p>Arturo Bertinelli was a compact gentleman on the graying side of forty with a dark Italian complexion and a well-trimmed mustache, but this was hard to see through the dust on his face. He awoke in bleary confusion to something cool caked on his skin and his wife Marie yelling beside him. But the detail which held his attention was the sight of the beautiful stars overhead: part of his ceiling and roof were gone. And the hole was cut in the stylized shape of a bat.<p>

Arturo sat up and coughed. Each movement caused a puff of dust to float off his hair or nightshirt. It took a panicked minute for him to find Marie and hug her and for the couple to convince each other they didn't know what was going on. He climbed out of bed and pulled the lamp cord.

There was a huge message on the wall.

**WHERE ARE THEY, ARTY?**

Arturo gasped and clutched his chest. His wife turned and screamed. The massive letters were written in black paint. Arturo paced across the room to catch his bearings as much as escape from the message. The powder on the bed and floor was clearly plaster from the hole in the ceiling. It wasn't clear what caused the plaster to fall, where the frame studs and shingles had gone, or how this had occurred right over his head without waking him.

He decided the first step to making sense of the situation was to wash out his eyes. He gestured for his wife to be calm and walked into the master bathroom. He turned on the lights and found the message on the mirror.

**WHERE ARE THEY, ARTY?**

Arturo flinched and turned away. No one called him that name. No one had called him that name in eleven years. Not since the vendettas. Not since his brothers died. He focused on his breathing to quiet his racing heart, coughing on more dust for his efforts, and hastily washed his hands and face. The moist plaster did not come off cleanly but left behind sticky streaks of residue. He looked at the message again, superimposed on his reflection, and it took a force of will to not smash the mirror with his fists. He splashed the hot water and rubbed his face and hands harder and harder until the worst of the plaster flaked off. Marie joined him at the sink. She clutched the revolver from his sock drawer. Amidst his panic, he felt a glow of pride: his wife never scared like a dame.

They heard a shriek and ran into the hall to help. Paulie, their youngest, was standing in front of his room in shock. His sisters Anita and Lucia were trying to comfort him despite being obviously spooked themselves. The hall lights were on, and the children stared at a black message painted across the hallway.

**WHERE ARE THEY, ARTY?**

As Marie rushed to their young son, Arturo marched furiously though the house, turning on the lights as he went. The message desecrated every room.

**WHERE ARE THEY, ARTY?**

**WHERE ARE THEY, ARTY?**

**WHERE ARE THEY, ARTY?**

The offending question was even graffitied on the mantle above the dog's basket. Their spaniel Zito was awake now, panting earnestly at his master's confusion. Arturo kicked the basket in rebuke. Zito flinched and whined, and Arturo cursed at him. What good was a dog who slept when an intruder came?

Then he noticed something in the foyer. The wall with his family's photographs had been changed. He walked over slowly, doubting his eyes. All their nicely framed portraits were scattered on the floor, replaced with a messy collage of shipping manifests, prints of passport pages, immigration records, and receipts for steamship tickets pinned to the wall. Arturo gleaned the meaning in an instant. Until now he merely felt alarmed by the vandal, but now he knew doom.

Back in the hallway, little Anita was crying and Paulie had retreated to his room. Marie was at the telephone, fighting to keep her hand steady long enough to enter a number. He caught her arm with more force than he intended. "_Smetti_! Stop!"

She looked up, too surprised to be annoyed. "What?"

"What are you doing?"

"Calling your cousin." He can help. He'd want to know. The elaboration was unnecessary and unsaid.

Arturo grimaced. It was true. An attack on their home was a Family matter. He was obliged to let the Family know. The Bertinellis looked after their own, and they would level the city to do it. On any other night he would have already made the call.

He didn't let go of her arm. "No. Not now." He took the receiver from her and returned it to the cradle. "Not just yet."

"Dear, what are you doing?"

"Not yet, not yet." He kissed her neck. "Not yet."

She stole a worried glance at the children. "Why not?"

"You have to trust me, yes? You have to leave now."

She nodded distracted. "We'll stay at Frank's house. Or Aunt Clarisa. Or-"

"No!" He held her shoulders. "You can't. Not anyone. You remember that hotel? The hotel from our anniversary? Take the children and head straight there, no stopping. Book a room. Not under our name. Use a different name."

"What? Arturo, that's nonsense."

"Don't let anyone know where you are. I'll call you there soon."

"That's half the state away. Why not go to your-"

He glared and kissed her on the lips. "Go. I need to know you're safe. I'll take care of this."

She looked at him uncertainly. "I love you."

"I love you more. Don't take anything. Drive as fast as you can."

Marie left him to gather the kids. Arturo picked up the revolver she had left next to the phone and ran a finger across the beveled metal grooves of the cylinder. It had been awhile since he held one. He looked at the phone. The Family could never know. But he was gravely out of his depth tonight. He would need help.

He laid down the weapon and dialed a number. It rang ten times. A clipped voice picked up on the eleventh ring. Arturo spoke as calmly as he could manage. "This is Responder Shiloh Green. I need to speak with Admiral Cornwell."

* * *

><p>Crime in Gotham City was a feudal system. Only desperate bottom-feeders and a few specialists were fully independent. Everyone else ran with a crew. Most crews were willing to let smaller outfits work their territory in return for tribute or favors, and territory didn't always mean a spot on a map. Some gangs claimed a line of business, like carjacking, or a relationship, like the tolerance of a ward lieutenant responsible for claims of carjacking. Taken together, Gotham's gang hierarchies were complicated, vast, and secretive, but two simple facts were absolutely certain: everyone bowed to the kings at the top, and the kings of Gotham were the Four Families.<p>

The Four Families - the Falcones, the Maronis, the Nobilios, and the Bertinellis - were a loose but stable alliance of the most powerful criminal syndicates of the Gotham underworld. They weren't just the top, they were a league apart. Most felons considered it the job of a lifetime if they spent five minutes in a bank vault. The Four Families bought and sold banks. Many racketeers offered bribes to the police so they could partake in illicit behavior. The Four Families _received_ bribes _from_ the police so the police could partake in illicit behavior. The wealth, muscle, and connections their empires possessed was practically beyond measure, and it didn't seem likely to decline anytime soon. The alliance was almost a decade old, or half a century in mob years, and together the Families knew they were invincible.

Part of the Families' success was knowing how to handle the authorities. This was easy with local and state officials whom they could muster a hundred forms of leverage against, but even they had little pull with the federal government. Accordingly, the Four Families went to great lengths to please and distract federal agencies, so when men from Navy Intelligence visited in the spring with a proposition, they listened carefully. In short, the Navy wanted informers. Washington feared the Axis powers aimed to sabotage the fledgling American war machine, and Gotham City was an industrial giant with the largest shipyards in the country. But countering espionage in Gotham was like hunting mosquitoes in a jungle. To even begin peeling back the layers of the city required an insider, and the Four Families had more roots in the city's dank crevices than anyone. They would know if someone was agitating the Italian-American longshoremen or the German-American steelworkers. They saw who was buying weapons or selling secrets. They could stop any union strike in an afternoon. They ran every step of the ration black market. They even had ears in the Bund and other pro-fascist clubs. They were perfect for the job.

The Four's patriarchs knew instantly they would accept. Any chance to make nice with federal men was a good move, and they had a bone to pick with Mussolini. But of course they asked what the Navy was offering in return. Not missing a beat, their visitors showed papers from the Justice Department concerning Tommy Maroni and Gus Falcone, two mob lieutenants who were sentenced to life in Alcatraz a decade ago. If the Families cooperated, the two would be moved to a low-security prison near Gotham with parole in five years. Then the Navy men produced a stack of court dockets for sixteen ongoing cases by the FBI and Treasury Department against businesses the Four had investments in and hinted these cases could quietly disappear.

It took about eight seconds of discussion to reach an agreement.

The Navy's commander of the project – soon named Operation Underworld by someone with a flair for the dramatic – was Admiral Bernard Cornwell. He had to admit those dirty racketeers had been unfailingly helpful from day one. The number of solid leads they provided exceeded his staff's most optimistic projection by a mile. Nothing in the city got past the Families. And, much to his surprise, the crooks never asked for more rewards or compensation. If he didn't know better, he might think they were serving out of some grain of altruism. Maybe they were patriots.

So it was with mixed surprise that Admiral Cornwell received a call from one of the crooks shortly before midnight. His maid woke him and brought him the phone. It was his secretary at the office claiming he had one of the Gotham special informers on an emergency line.

"Yes, hello?"

The call to his home in Falls Church, Virginia through the Navy Department's switchboard in Washington from a phone in Gotham City sounded perfectly clear. Any misunderstanding was the fault of its participants.

"Is'zis Cornwell?"

"This is Admiral Cornwell, may I ask who's-"

"It's Arturo. We need to talk quick, see?"

"Arturo? Arturo, Arturo."

"Bertinelli. We met."

"Hm. Oh yes, Mr. Bertinelli." Arturo was one of the least productive agents in the program, and the Admiral couldn't remember ever speaking with him. "How can I help you, sir?"

"Listen. I need backup, and I need it fast."

The Admiral sat up straighter with a sudden serious expression. "What's the danger?"

"No time to squawk, I'm dyin' over here. Just pick me up lickty-split. I'll be at my safe house. Got that?"

"If you want our protection, I need to know the nature of the threat."

"Fine, it's … well ..."

"Pardon?"

"It's Batman. Batman's after me."

" … "

"Hey! You still there?"

Cornwell hadn't attended the infamous Project Galen deposition last year, but everyone knew the rumors. Two anarchists in gaudy outfits broke into an Army research base, stole sensitive items, lit half the camp on fire, and somehow escaped, never to be seen again. To top it all off, the whole fiasco happened under the nose of the mighty Amanda Waller, the only woman with the President's number and the only person to ever intimidate J. Edgar Hoover, or so the scuttlebutt said. This pair had hoodwinked her, leaving only one clue: one anarchist called himself Batman.

In those weird backrooms of power where spooks swapped stories, the name had become something between a punchline and the Bogeyman. He was the Headless Horseman. He put Pancho Villa to shame. The Admiral was sure he didn't exist. Not like that anyway.

"Yes, yes I'm still here, Mr. Bertinelli. Who is Batman?"

"Who? You ask who? Is that a joke? You think I got time to jaw around some funnies now, buddy?"

"Well, I'll confess I'm not familiar with many of the notables of your city, and I thought perhaps you've heard-"

"Ughh! _Come ha fatto un grasso, pigro sempliciotto-_"

"Now hold on, sir. This is not how one addresses an … I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"Look, pal, it doesn't matter whose boots you gotta kiss, get me the Marines. Or get me the Mounties, I don't care. If you want me to still have all my limbs by sunrise, have someone with a lotta' firepower pick me up at my safehouse, _capisci_?"

"Alright, alright, Mr. Bertinelli, I'll make sure that-"

The line went dead.

With two phone calls, Cornwell had a young commander rousing three of his colleagues for ideas on who might help Arturo Bertinelli on short notice. His team for Operation Underworld had men in the area, but at the moment they were all administrative staff, not bodyguards. They dared not call the police; Underworld was too important, and the GCPD would be furious about it. The FBI had an office nearby, but the story would make them go ballistic worse than the cops (who might at least have a working relationship with the mob). The last thing he wanted was his man in FBI custody. Few in the Bureau were cleared to know, and the agents would ask questions.

One of his colleagues, an expert in organized crime, had been silent for a minute. Now he interrupted to point out the request made no sense. Whatever the threat, the Italian mobs never sought outside help. Never. Not for a private matter. It was unthinkable. They handled their own affairs with a tight-lipped discipline most spy rings could only dream of. And the Bertinellis were big shots. A senior member like Arturo could have rallied five family soldiers and a dozen paid street toughs to his defense in the time it took to call the Admiral. They all lived near each other for a reason.

Cornwall had no answers for the puzzle, but the fact remained Mr. Bertinelli, a loyal asset, was in imminent danger. Whatever the story was, it could be dealt with once he was safe. Finally, another colleague, an Army liaison, remembered his own Army intelligence might have a man passing through Gotham at the moment. A real cowboy, in fact, no stranger to dust-ups, and he could keep his mouth shut. He was a captain named Steven Trevor.


	2. Unknown Predators

_All claims are DC. Please enjoy. Reviews humbly appreciated._

**Batman 1939: Swimming in the Styx**

**Chapter 2: Unknown Predators **

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><p>Batman stood in a brick wall and couldn't stop grinning. He felt alive in a way he hadn't felt in a long time.<p>

Finding Arturo Bertinelli's safe house had been easy. Most big mobsters kept several. In fact, knowing Arturo only had one revealed as much about his finances as his fallback options. It wasn't even a safe house, it was a safe _room, _and he didn't even bother to put it in a basement like a sensible fugitive. No, it was a fourth floor apartment in a quiet neighborhood downtown. Even more bizarrely, the place was purchased in his name. Mobsters loved real estate and knew a dozen tricks to twist a deed: fake names and proxy owners were child's play. None were a challenge for Batman, but a token effort was expected.

The safe room did have the usual armored entrance. Its wooden door could be barricaded on the inside by a sliding wall of overlapping steel slats which rolled down on tracks like a garage door to lock shut with two latches sunk into the floor. This sliding barrier wasn't the most sophisticated piece of security Batman had seen in a criminal lair, but it was among the most practical. With three seconds and a strong arm, someone could shield the apartment against any force short of heavy construction equipment, and big machinery wouldn't fit in the elevator (perhaps the fourth floor had a perk after all).

The walls were just as important. Arturo had installed three layers of sturdy brick. A determined man with a sledgehammer might break through eventually, but the noise would wake the building, and police patrolled this street at all hours. The walls were so thick the sheer dimensions puzzled Batman. The size of Arturo's room hadn't changed, so if three mortared bricks were a foot across then it had to mean his neighbors' already-tiny apartments were now a foot smaller and asymmetrical. The floor and ceiling were also bricked which implied even odder scenarios above and below. Gotham had some weird apartments, but not in this part of town.

After a brief search, the answer was simple. The neighbors didn't mind because they weren't home. All the adjacent apartments had absentee owners. Batman suspected these were also safe rooms for junior Bertinellis or their allies. Like every other detail of the mission, that served him perfectly. The apartment to the west had a window facing the alley which meant he could casually come and go with as much gear as he could carry. So he brought a gas mask, left the window open, and laid a heavy tarp on the floor. When the site was ventilated, he slowly opened a glass jar of strong muratic acid and brushed it on a man-sized segment of the wall. Once it softened the mortar to a thick putty, he used a sharp chisel to carve around each brick, then he eased them out with the aid of a prybar and his prodigious hand strength. One by one, hour by hour, he quietly carved a hole though two layers of the wall. He did not carve through the third layer. He still applied acid and loosened the bricks with the chisel, but he didn't push the point though. The wall still looked untouched from the other side.

That was last night. Now Batman crouched in the new alcove, waiting in the dark. It occurred to him to simply wait inside the room, but as much as he regretted frightening the man's children, he was hell-bent on using every ugly tactic he had. He had triple-checked every lead. He spent four evenings setting the scene. The plan was more polished and reviewed than any he had ever devised. He was fit, rested, focused, decked out in tools, and armed to the teeth. He had taken every precaution. He would make no mistakes. The only challenge was staying calm. His gut rolled with contempt and a mighty eagerness.

* * *

><p>Dr. Lyle Pemberly was a distinguished fellow at the Franklin Institute for International Relations. It was a new position for him, one last relaxing post before he eased into retirement. He already had twenty years in the foreign service and eight in academia under his belt. During his teaching years, he also consulted as an expert on treaty law, but the role was behind him now. These days he enjoyed coming in late, writing papers on whatever struck his fancy, mentoring the younger researchers, ordering lunch on the Institute's dime, and taking Fridays off to hit the links.<p>

Still, when an old congressional friend called in the morning to beg his help on a diplomatic conundrum, Dr. Pemberly had to admit he was intrigued. If he agreed, he would meet a man late that night in complete secrecy, and he wouldn't be paid. The bold inconvenience of the request was beguiling. If his friend had tried an appointment during sensible hours, or if he had explained the issue or offered a fee, Dr. Pemberly would have declined. But requesting a covert consultation on short notice _pro bono_? Something was afoot. Diplomats rarely saw as much intrigue and skullduggery as many people imagined, but they saw far more than semi-retired professors. He was a rover at heart, and deep down he missed the intrigue.

Dr. Pemberly agreed to meet the man at his home near the Institute and its benefactor, Hudson University. The tree-lined streets around Hudson were the closest one could be to the city center and still find private lawns with white-picket fences. Naturally, the rent for a small home could ransom Wyoming. But money wasn't a concern for Dr. Pemberly. Consulting had been lucrative. If war was the last resort to settle matters between nations, he was the second-to-last resort. Very few conflicts were purely practical - two starving men fighting over one dinner, so to speak. Many were about saving face: any leader who backed down from a conflict looked weak. Sometimes nations had a solution both would tolerate, but neither trusted the other to keep it, and a few disagreements were literal formalities, the title of a dead monarch or the name of a bridge. Whatever the contention, Dr. Pemberly could find a deal which sent everyone home happy. He had friends in every embassy. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of diplomatic loopholes, cultural subtleties, and each nations' own legal precedents maybe five scholars on the planet could match. And no one could guide a negotiation with such adroitness. In the Great Game, he was a ringer.

As the hour turned late and the pot of tea he set out turned cold, Dr. Pemberly paced up and down his den. The wool of his sweater vest was getting itchy; he was normally in his silk smoking jacket by now. As he was about to give up and turn off the porch lights, he heard a quick knock at the door. A young man stood outside, a strapping fellow who introduced himself as Captain Trevor but cheerfully insisted Dr. Pemberly call him Steve. Steve could have stepped out of a recruitment poster with his crisp Army dress uniform and sharply-parted blonde hair. Dr. Pemberly had met enough military men to recognize the pilot wings and bronze star on his coat. _Curious_.

They shook hands. Steve offered a folded note of introduction from his congressional friend. Dr. Pemberly read it and invited Steve to take a seat inside.

Steve stayed stiffly at the door. "Forgive me, Doctor. But I have to ask a question or two first," then he added, "Orders" like it was a valid apology.

Dr. Pemberly eyed him queerly. "Alright."

"Did you mention this meeting to anyone, sir?"

"No."

"No one at all?"

"No."

"Is there anyone here who might overhear or interrupt us?"

"Do you see a ring on my finger, Captain?"

"Sir, this is important."

"I promise I'm the only one here. But you might get some attention if you keep standing on my porch."

Steve nodded sheepishly. "Then excuse me for a moment. I hope you don't mind that I brought a guest."

"Oh. Alright."

Steve walked towards his car. Dr. Pemberly pondered this news. Who would demand such discretion? Some disgraced ambassador? A deposed head of state? He watched as the young captain led a figure though the dark of his driveway.

They came near and he saw "figure" was the right word indeed. Dr. Pemberly was a lifelong bachelor and well past his prime, but even he did a double take when _she_ came into view. The lady was tall, a head above him and an inch over Captain Trevor, and limb filled most of that height. When she approached, he came to his senses and started to offer a small bow, but she held his hand in both of hers and smiled, "Thank you for seeing us on short notice, Doctor. My name is Diana Prince." She had an accent he couldn't place. Dr. Pemberly nodded a bit too much and replied, "Naturally, yes. A pleasure to meet you, Diana. Do come in." She inclined her head graciously and entered. Steve watched this with the curved lip of someone holding in a smirk. Dr. Pemberly felt a tad annoyed at him.

Inside, Dr. Pemberly finally viewed his new guest under the light. Diana had faint Mediterranean features but blue eyes. Her black hair was pulled into a modest bun, and she wore round-framed glasses - unflattering, in his opinion. Overall, she seemed warm and poised, serene and professional, with an air of absolute confidence he rarely saw in anyone, let alone a woman of no obvious rank or heritage. He couldn't guess her purpose by her outfit, a dark blue jacket and pencil skirt found in any office, but he did find it strange her clothes didn't fit. The details were minor but hard to miss: the shoulders of her jacket pinched, her skirt hung lower than most of that style, and her white blouse was a size too tight. Dr. Pemberly had never met – frankly couldn't imagine – a lady with such obvious class dressing so carelessly.

He realized he was staring and hurried to shut the door. "Yes, both of you please take a seat. I'm afraid the tea is cold, but I'm happy to make another hot beverage if you wish. I also have a collection of spirits if that strikes your fancy."

Steve hung his hat and seemed to consider the second offer, but Diana replied before he could speak. "We're fine, Doctor, thank you." Steve didn't seem to mind her making his decision and took a seat in a plush den chair. Diana took the chair beside him. Dr. Pemberly didn't entertain often, but he had enough furniture for a party of three. He poured himself a glass of port from a nearby decanter and found a spot on the couch across from them.

"Well, well." Dr. Pemberly had the prim and measured diction of an Oxford don. "How can I help you fine young people?"

Steve leaned forward, all business. "You understand, Doctor, that this meeting is completely confidential. Not a word can leave this room."

Dr. Pemberly returned a wry look. "So I've inferred."

"I'm obliged to make completely sure."

"Young man, I was working in the federal service before you were in grade school. I can hold my tongue."

"Of course. Sorry."

"No harm done." Dr. Pemberly waved a hand. "Now, what's the problem that needs my help?"

Steve spoke. "Doctor, imagine the United States discovered a new nation. Do you know any precedents for such a thing?"

"A new nation, eh? Terra incognita. An interesting question." Dr. Pemberly went silent in thought. He steepled his fingers and sunk back into his couch, letting out a deep, slow hum. "Yes and no. Yes, there is precedent, though none recently, of course, and not by America. A Brit named James Cook wrapped up the last of the globe in the 1770s or so. The map is fairly complete."

His guests looked crestfallen. Steve said, "I see."

"Granted, every so often a mining expedition will come across a new tribe deep in the Congo or a similar wilderness. I suppose these communities qualify as nations by one definition of the word. But none of them are matters of diplomacy. These little tribes become de facto subjects of whichever proper state has sovereignty over their territory."

Diana responded with unexpected pep. "What about an island? Have you carved all the seas as well?"

Dr. Pemberly looked taken aback, either by her phrasing or by such a forceful question from a lady. "Well, no. There are unclaimed islands around, and I suspect some must be inhabited. But I confess, this is really outside of my expertise. Perhaps you should try a cartographer or an anthropologist."

Captain Trevor pressed on, more gently than Diana. "That won't be necessary, Doctor. But humor us. Say there was an inhabited island found," he gestured vaguely, "In some sea somewhere. No one else owned it. What would the government do?"

"Not much. Any tribe hidden this long must be quite primitive." Captain Trevor cringed and glanced at Diana, but her expression remained pleasantly neutral. Pemberly didn't seem to notice. "Few of these isolated communities develop writing, let alone finer notions of statecraft. How would we conduct diplomacy? And over what issues? They never have the population or industry to carry weight in world affairs. Not in this century, anyway. I daresay we've met more than enough indigenous groups to prove that. Yes, I imagine we would simply leave them be."

Diana spoke again, eagerly. "Presume our island nation was sophisticated, Doctor, with writing and cultivation and architecture."

"Architecture? Like a city-state?"

She nodded. "Yes, a city-state home to thousands. A culture with scholars in every field of natural study and artists in every medium. And a standing army as brave and well-drilled as any Man could hope to muster."

Dr. Pemberly didn't glean her nuance on the capital M. He rubbed his chin and took a minute to consider this with the help of some port. "Mm. That would be most remarkable. But it is a bit late in the evening for intellectual exercises, my dear. If such a civilization existed, it must be on an island large and temperate enough to produce food for thousands. Yet it remains unknown? In two hundred years of global travel, it is irrational to think that no foreign vessel would see this island. If that weren't enough to refute the proposition, all coastal peoples that size invent boating. Why haven't we found a settlement made by one of its seafarers? After all, the Polynesians crossed the Pacific in Stone Age canoes."

Diana didn't know who or what Polynesians were. She added it to her list of topics to look up. Steve tapped his fingers on the wooden arm of the chair and made a face like he was deciding how to phrase something. "What if ... What if, Doctor, our hypothetical island was ... hidden."

"Hidden?" Dr. Pemberly chortled and had another sip of port, now enjoying the game. "Hidden how? By a wizard?"

Diana opened her mouth, but this time Steve cut her off. "By a unique weather system. Constant storms and mist obscure it for months at a time. Only the most modern vessels could hope to navigate though, and it's far away from any trade route so few captains would bother to try."

Dr. Pemberly picked up the thread. "And if our modern ships struggle to pass through, the islanders surely couldn't hope to leave. I'll admit that's a clever explanation, Captain, well done. Of course, I can't say how likely such a weather system is."

Diana spoke. "Regardless, how would the government proceed?"

"Well, we would send an envoy. If the islanders reacted favorably, we would learn the rudiments of their language and discuss a treaty to formalize relations. Then all sorts of possibilities arise. I imagine they would want to know about the rest of the world and its developments. Once an embassy and a proper port were built, I can think of groups that would quickly send teachers, missionaries, and surveyors. Depending on its location, the Navy might negotiate to set up a fueling station, perhaps even a base. Other great nations would want their own embassies and visitors. Once the locals learned of our systems of commerce, trade would be discussed. That means engineers, prospectors, loggers, farmers, fishermen, factory owners, maybe retailers in time. It would be very exciting, I'm sure."

His two guests sat in inscrutable silence. Steve finally opened his mouth but Diana beat him to it.

"Doctor, is there any way the government could recognize a nation secretly?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"What if it was suspected this island wouldn't react favorably to public attention? Could a formal treaty exist, but knowledge of the nation's existence stay limited to a minimum of authorities? Are officials formally obliged to share their discovery with the world?"

"I ... I ... No one has proposed such a thing. Keeping an entire nation a secret? In this day and age? I'm not sure that's even constitutional. I confess I wouldn't know where to start."

"How many people would need to be told for relations to be established, and who?"

"I would have to consider that." Dr. Pemberly scrutinized her more closely. He still couldn't place her accent, and he had heard most of them. "I'm sorry, Miss Diana, I meant to ask while we were making introductions, but may I inquire in what capacity you work with Captain Trevor?"

"Guide," Diana answered as Steve said, "Friends." They looked at each other awkwardly. She couldn't tell a fib to save her life. Steve faced the Director with a toothy smile. "Diana is a nurse at an Army hospital in DC, but she went to school for political affairs so lately I've recruited her as an assistant in this little research project I've been assigned."

"To study hypothetical diplomatic scenarios."

"Yes."

"Secretly."

"Yes."

"In the middle of the night."

"... Yes."

A diplomat had tact. "Ah."

The phone rang. Dr. Pemberly excused himself and went to his old rotary machine on the wall. "Hello? Yes? Yes?" He looked at Steve. "He is. Yes. Just a moment." Dr. Pemberly lowered the receiver. "Captain Trevor, there's an officer on the line who wishes to speak with you."

Diana looked curiously at Steve who shrugged and stood. Pemberly handed the phone to him returned to the his seat. "Hello? Captain Steven Trevor, USAAF. Yes. Yes. More or less. Just my service pistol. Yes. About twenty minutes from downtown. No, I can't say I'm familiar. Who? From who? What's a batman?"

Dr. Pemberly was busy enjoying his port, but when he heard this he spit the whole mouthful. Diana flinched, and the spray missed her by inches. Steve saw this but was still on the call.

"Okay. Yes. Yes. I see. I'll be careful, sir. Yes. As soon as I'm done. Goodnight." Steve hung up the phone and walked to his host. "Have something to share, Dr. Pemberly?"

"No, no, sorry."

Steve stood over the doctor with his arms akimbo. "Nothing about my call surprised you?"

"I couldn't help but overhear. I nearly imagined you said something about, well, the Batman."

Steve crossed his arms. "That name came up. Does it mean something to you?"

Dr. Pemberly was incredulous. "Mean something to me? How much time have you spent in Gotham City?"

"I've been though a few times. Not long. Why?"

His host's disposition turned gloomy and foreboding. Doctor Pemberly stared at the floor. "Whatever they want you to do, son, don't go."

"Now hold on, Doctor. You're a dutiful man, I'm sure you know how it is. I have important business. If you've heard of this Batman fella, I want the news and I want it now!" Diana had no idea what business Steve was talking about, but they supported each other. She moved to sit on the couch beside Dr. Pemberly and looked at him encouragingly. "Please, I'm sure we'll understand."

Dr. Pemberly held up his hands in defeat, no longer sounding like an Oxford don. "Fine. The Batman is sort of, uh, a legend here."

Steve frowned. "Tick-tock, Doc. I need more than that." Diana looked sharply at him and spoke softly, "What kind of legend?"

Dr. Pemberly turned to her. "He hurts people. Bad people. Maybe other people too. At least that's what they say. I heard he can slip through walls and has skin like a rhinoceros. Everyone with a cudgel and a grudge has been chasing him for years, but he's never been caught."

Steve raised an eyebrow. "You make him sound supernatural."

"Captain, I'm an educated man, we both know it's unbelievable, but yes, he is often styled as some sort of rageful demigod."

Diana's muscles stiffened. "I see." The remark slipped out a degree too coldly. Her family had a bone to pick with demigods.

Steve tugged on his coat and retrieved his hat from the hook. "I'm sure it's a moot point anyway. Let's go Diana, I have an errand to run. We'll be in touch, Doctor." He opened the front door.

Diana stood and shook Doctor Pemberly's hand with an apologetic smile. "Thank you so much for your time."

"My dear, I implore you, make sure he isn't about to do something stupid."

* * *

><p>Back in the car, Steve was putting the key in the ignition when Diana grabbed his wrist. "Steven, what's going on?"<p>

His mouth was a serious line. "Got a call from the General. There's an informant here in the city, Bert-something. Bertinolly. Bertinelli. Bertini. Anyway, his family was threatened tonight by a local anarchist who calls himself the Bat Man. I have to go pick Bert up." He turned the ignition. "And the General said to rush."

"Did he say anything else?"

"Not much. He did say this Bat character has had run-ins with the Army before. The meathead's dangerous."

She raised her eyes at him. He grinned with the infinite self-assurance God grants fighter pilots. "It's fine. I'm more dangerous."

"Is there a reason the police can't assist?"

"Don't know. Didn't ask."

"Well, alright. We'll do this quickly then."

"We? Sorry, no can do, Angel. The hotel's almost on the way. I'll detour to drop you off."

She considered this for a long moment. "Hm. That sounds convenient. Where is this informant you need to rescue?"

"He said to find the tallest building on Twelfth Street. In fact, can you reach that map under your seat? I'm not sure the best way there. The roads in this city make no sense."

She did as requested, taking a long look at it first. "Steve, this anarchist sounds like someone you should avoid. Drop me off here and you can arrive sooner."

"And leave you stranded in the middle of Gotham?"

"This is a safe-looking neighborhood. I'll flag a taxi. You know how quickly they stop for me."

"True."

"Come on, Captain Trevor. Go. You have a mission!"

He couldn't help but smile. "Got that right. Okay, Nurse Prince, I'll let you off here." He slowed and edged to the curb. "Take care of yourself."

"You too."

The car pulled away. She waved after him. Then she looked around. There was no one in either direction, only more quiet suburbia. A cluster of pines edged someone's front lawn nearby. She walked briskly and stood in their shadows.

Diana Prince held her arms out to her sides, made a quarter-turn as if winding to throw a discus, then began to spin. She turned like a top, faster and faster. Her hair slipped out of its bun and flapped around with her. On her third turn, there was a flash of groovy technicolor light and in Diana's place stood Wonder Woman.

* * *

><p>Arturo Bertinelli stumbled out of his car, coughing and cursing as he tried in vain to wipe the last of the powder wafting off his shirt. He was triple-parked in front of a five-story apartment building called the Twelfth Street Arms.<p>

Arturo burst through the entrance in his night clothes, covered in dust and sweat and carrying a revolver. The receptionist jumped but said nothing. The young man's reaction was completely expected. Arturo Bertinelli knew he could arrive in a bloody prison jumpsuit and none of the building's staff would blink. Not only did the Bertinellis own the Twelfth Street Arms, the Bertinellis owned Twelfth Street. Arturo's eyes darted across the quiet lobby. The minute hand ticked around the dial of the grandfather clock. A fly buzzed near a wall sconce. He continued pulling ragged breaths as he studied the scene.

The receptionist smiled with worried eyes. "Can I help you this evening, Mr. Bertinelli?"

Arturo rubbed his face and blinked like he just remembered why he came. "Yeah, if a, uh, a cop or a sailor or something comes through here talking about me, someone in a uniform or carrying a badge, you show them my room, got it? You point them my way."

"You got it, Mr. Bertinelli. I'll be on the lookout. Here's your key."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Good kid." Arturo slapped him absentmindedly on the cheek and tipped a twenty-dollar bill. The receptionist took the bill and nodded in shock, not wanting to jinx the moment. He was holding a week's wages.

Arturo turned and stared at him intently. Then he bent away and stomped towards the waiting elevator, tracking white dust on the red carpet. He stopped halfway, muttered, then changed course for the staircase. The receptionist leaned forward and peered discreetly after him, then he shared a shrug with the elevator attendant. He had been at the job four years. The boss never took the stairs.

Arturo felt edgy like only a hunted man could. He shuffled up the stairs in the flickering dim, hugging the wall and spinning at every landing to aim up the next flight. He was on a hair-trigger. He decided that if anything moved, he would blow it away. Intruders, neighbors, pets - he didn't even care. Fortunately for the other residents, no one passed him. He made it out of the stairwell into an empty hallway and paced cautiously to the door of his apartment. While keeping as much of his body to the side as possible, Arturo gingerly unlocked it, turned the knob, and pushed. As the oak door swung open, he hopped back and lifted his revolver.

Nothing jumped out at him. He checked the hallway one last time and entered. Arturo flicked the light switch. It was a sparse room: a little bed, two chairs, a rug on the cheap wooden floor, a naked bulb on the ceiling, and an end table with a telephone on top (the phone and power lines made the only holes in the brick wall). He closed the door, then he reached up and let his weight drag the sliding steel barrier down behind him. It was heavy. Most people would need a few tries, but he had practice. The latches clicked into place. He closed his eyes for what felt like the first time in an hour and tried to steady his breathing. He was safe for now.

Arturo collapsed into a chair, dropped the revolver on the end table. After a minute of simply resting, he opened the table's single drawer. There were a few provisions inside, crackers and canned meat and the like. He pulled out a bottle of wine. He needed it. He picked up a corkscrew and, after a moment, a glass. His addled mind had briefly considered drinking straight from the bottle. But no, he wasn't a barbarian.

He sipped the wine. It was liquid mercy. He began to relax, feeling a measure of control again.

Then the light went out.


	3. Caught

_All claims are DC. Please enjoy. Reviews humbly appreciated._

**Batman 1939: Swimming in the Styx**

**Chapter 3: Caught  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Arturo Bertinelli was a compact gentleman on the graying side of forty with a dark Italian complexion and a well-trimmed mustache, but this was hard to see through the blood on his face. He awoke in bleary confusion to the feeling of a swelled lip and a great pain in his right hand. He glanced down. When his vision condensed, he saw that two of his fingers were bent wrong. The image brought up a wave of shock and nausea. Like many who wake with blood on their face, Arturo wasn't sure where he was or how he got there. He was trying to form a thought when he was hefted into the air, spun, and confronted with a terrifying eyeless face so close that it monopolized his vision. He screamed. Worst of all was the smile, carved like a Jack-o'-lantern's grin and just as soulless. If his scream told the demon that he didn't want to see it any longer, his wish was granted. Arturo was tossed with the careless ease given to an empty wrapper. The world spun. His knees hit first, then his shoulder, then his broken hand struck and everything turned red and disconnected.<p>

When he found his senses, he happened to focus on an unfamiliar pile of metal near his nose. With a strain, he rolled upright onto an elbow. From here he recognized the pile for what it was: his revolver, now disassembled down to its thrity-some component parts, the pins, levers, screws, and springs all lined up like a manufacturing blueprint.

Arturo saw the revolver and remembered.

He had been relaxing in a chair with some wine. He felt safe. Then the light went out. Before he could begin to register panic, a furious noise erupted beside him. The air cavitated. He was pelted with dense debris. Then the light went on, revealing a massive dark figure looming over him. Drawing on a nerve and instinct that survived a hundred gangland fights, he lunged for his weapon, smoothly palmed the grip in his right hand, then twisted to take aim. But he was too slow. A huge glove caught his wrist like a vise. Another glove seized the revolver and tore it backwards out of his grasp with his middle and index fingers still caught in the trigger guard. He tried to stand. The stolen revolver was lifted high, and the last thing he saw was it speeding towards his face.

The memory made Arturo vividly aware of the long bruise beside his nose and the streaks of crusting blood that spread sideways over his cheek and ear. He knew violence. He knew the blood dried that way because he had been horizontal while the wound was fresh. By the texture, he guessed he had been horizontal about five minutes.

A voice spoke calmly with titanic force, "**Sit.**"

Arturo looked up. The broken revolver was so bizarre that he had ignored the looming demon. It was obviously the Batman. They had never met, but all the myths agreed on a few traits: the cape, the pointed cowl, the white eyes, the symbol. And like they said, he was very tall. This was especially obvious from the floor. Arturo knew now why Batman lived in the shadows: standing under a bright bulb made him look more gaunt than fearsome - a tired man draped with a cloak. He wasn't grinning any longer. Now he was coldly serious. Arturo wasn't sure which was worse.

He realized there was a hole in the wall. If only he could buy a few seconds ...

"**Now.**"

Arturo pushed to his feet, staying low and wary. He faced his chair, pretended to stumble, and caught himself on the end table. With the burning in his old joints, this didn't take much acting. He could sense Batman looming just a pace behind him. Staying hunched, Arturo stepped back. Then he turned with uncanny speed, holding the corkscrew hidden close to his body, and stabbed it under Batman's ribs. The corkscrew bounced off Batman's abdomen with a metallic _plink_. They eyed each other. Batman blocked the next urgent stab then ended the exercise with a beautiful chokeslam.

* * *

><p>The Dark Knight's largest equipment project was his suit. The current prototype added a set of metal plates to the padding and resembled, appropriately enough, a late medieval knight. Unlike a knight, Batman used aircraft-grade aluminum and bonded fiberglass. The suit was all but invincible below the chin to blunt or bladed trauma, a fact proven superbly on its few field-tests. The reason it remained a prototype was the weight. Being able to shrug off a crowbar to the liver wasn't worth a third of his sprint or long jump. If anything, it it was more durable than he needed. A trimmed variant would take time. Until then it stayed on the rack. He made an exception tonight because taking chances with the Four Families was suicide. He wasn't expecting trouble, but he was dressed for war all the same.<p>

There was another reason for the armor. Tonight would be his first success towards a dream he had chased for years, and wearing his finest gear felt right. The spine of the Batman myth was that no one was beyond justice, but on any given day this simply wasn't true. There were powerful figures who committed their sins at such a distance that the strings would never be found and who eased through the legal system at a whim. It was why he had never seriously considered using his talents against warlords and other global monsters; there was no court for these men. The only way to hurt them was a line he would not cross. At least America was built on a foundation of the impersonal Law. On any given day some figures couldn't be touched, but in the long run? In the long run, the juror and the voter could bring down giants. They just needed a strong case and a reminder that they could.

This was what he told himself. It was the conviction that kept him going through every brutal night and every death and every setback. It kept him going, but it didn't bring him peace. Batman was a perfectionist with a fanatical sense of symbolism. He knew he wouldn't feel satisfied until he brought down the biggest giant of all. In Gotham, that meant the Families. Permanently convicting even a minor lieutenant was unthinkable. They guarded themselves on every front. For years, he couldn't find a weakness.

The problem wasn't just corruption. They couldn't buy or threaten every single judge, attorney, cop, agent, councilman, sheriff, and politician in the city, no matter how hard they tried. Gotham was too big. If the Four Families were as destructive as any other gang, the law would eventually bring them to justice. So they stayed safe. For starters, most of their income was now legitimate. When they did engage in crime, it was the quiet, victimless type - collusion, kickbacks, insider trading, and the like. The complicated schemes they specialized in were much harder to catch than small, obvious crimes. Anyone could rob a gas station, and prisons were full of robbers. But it took connections and expertise to skim the Sanitation Union's pension, and a good union scam was a prosecutor's nightmare.

That wasn't to say the Families didn't still profit from old-fashioned street felonies. They did, handsomely. They just had someone else do the dirty work. The actual perpetrators (say, a store selling untaxed cigarettes in the back) gave a cut of the loot to someone supporting them (say, a tobacco wholesaler) who gave a cut to an organization that owned or regulated the supporters (say, a bank or customs office) which was itself part-owned in some complicated way by a Family associate. All these steps were obstacles to an investigator, and most of the transactions were legal. By the time the loot reached the top, it had washed through so many jurisdictions and balance sheets that the stink was utterly gone. It was said the Families kept two accountants and five lawyers for every made man. They didn't invent Gotham's criminal feudal system, but they did master it. In a way, conspiracy and laundering was their real vocation.

Comparing their gift with this vocation between the Four, the Maronis and Nobilios were respectably average, usually working a racket at least two steps removed. The Maronis were larger and more creative, but both paled next to the Falcones. The Falcones were the first among equals in their pact, and here they played on another level entirely. Falcone money could change hands seven times before it reached their accounts, often crossing borders in the process. To lead an empire so discreetly yet with such firm control required nothing short of genius. The more one studied the clan, the easier it was to suspect that they had the most sophisticated management team in America.

The Bertinellis were the opposite. This wasn't their fault, more or less. They always had less territory, less muscle, and frankly less brains than their peers, and this fueled a deep insecurity to prove they _were_ peers. It wasn't an inferiority complex. If you weren't a big shot, sooner or later you were food. They had eaten enough rivals themselves to know that. The Bertinellis were well aware that if they hoped to match the money and respect the other families made, they had to take more risks, even if this made them crude and hasty by comparison. They entered businesses the others wouldn't touch, they set up rackets with only a single middleman, and once in a blue moon the most desperate members even pulled street crimes themselves.

Learning this last tiny detail helped Batman solve the puzzle more than all his years of plotting combined.

A predator hunting large herd animals faced a difficult proposition. Herds were content to stay together and were invincible as long as they did. The predator's only hope was to find a straggler: prey too old or injured to keep up, too headstrong to stay close, or simply shunned by herd politics. Against sufficiently careful herds that looked after their stragglers, a predator's only chance to eat was the last option, the outcast. But if the prey was human, sometimes the predator didn't need to wait for an outcast. Sometimes an outcast could be made.

* * *

><p>Arturo spent a few minutes on the floor. Someone had used his spine for kettle drums. People in the corridor were knocking now and trying to talk though the door, their voices muted by the metal. Arturo didn't bother calling out. The barrier made them useless, and besides, if seeking nearby help was an option, he wouldn't be here. Batman seemed indifferent to the noise. Arturo strained to his feet with the help of the wall, then he fell into the chair with as much dignity as he could manage.<p>

Batman watched him. No one tried harder than a felon to act tough, and the Dark Knight was in a rare position to test them. He learned, for instance, that some of the biggest punks were cardboard. One flyweight jab to the snout and they were off like the Kentucky Derby. But most men and women who stole and cheated for a living could suffer a few lumps, especially those born into a family business and those born without family to speak of. And then there were the rare few carved from wood. The hard cases who didn't know the meaning of quit. It fascinated Batman that, for all his experience, he couldn't pick one out of a lineup. Anyone might be brass to the core. They came in every size, shape, color, history, and walk of life.

But there were still trends. One of the steadiest groups, stone cold men of honor who didn't rat for nobody, was the Old Guard Sicilians, the ones who ran the streets before the streets had cars. Any still in the game now went beyond tough; they were rawhide. Batman didn't expect Arturo to crack anytime soon.

To his credit, the man finally accepted the situation. Lesser crooks made a show even after they were beat, acting defiant or sullen, but Arturo just stared coolly as he sucked in air. That was one advantage of dealing with old pros. No doubt Arturo had done this before, as the interrogator or the captive and likely both. He knew the rules. This practicality could help or challenge Batman's goal. The Dark Knight had planned his pitch very carefully.

He began to pace around the chair. Arturo didn't turn to watch him, possibly from neck pain.

"**In June, eighteen **Ukrainian university **students escaped the German invasion by sailing to Istanbul. They traveled across Turkey by rail and continued south through Iraq to the Persian Gulf. The students boarded a freighter to Cape Town, then another to Gotham City. But here their journey's incredible luck failed. Immigration officials detained them when they stepped off the ship. They had no papers. They didn't know anyone. It's likely none spoke English. The refugee process was backlogged for months, and until then they were trapped in limbo. But someone saved them that evening. The authorities were given false passports and visas so they could enter the country." **

Batman paused to check Arturo's reaction. He had none.

**"I don't know where the students spent their first two nights on American soil, but on the third they were seen with you near a tenement you own in the upper Narrows. Two men arrived before dawn on a bus. They paid you stacks of bills hidden in a grocery bag, and you led the students onto the bus. They disappeared.**"

Arturo looked bored.

**"These eighteen foreign nationals surfaced a week later at Swenson Corrugated's tin factory in Bludhaven, all clearly victims of abuse. Many were bruised. One young woman wore a foot cast. They were forced to work twelve hour days and slept in a locked basement, all so Swenson Corrugated could shave nine cents from a can of soup. You knew this. In fact, you received weekly compensation delivered by courier to your office in Bayside. I assume the money was to purchase your continued silence, but maybe it was a down payment on future labor.**

**"The students didn't stay long. They had been sold to a copper mine in New Mexico. They didn't spend much time there either, but the trail after the mine was a dead end. I couldn't find where they are now, but I found plenty of evidence at both prisons to where they had been. The District Attorney's office and the Justice Department are gathering confessions and building a case as we speak."**

Arturo's cool showed a crack. He squinted at the wall and frowned testily. The noises outside the door seemed to fade to a buzz in his ears.

**"I'm not shocked by what you did. The only surprise was how easy it was to find. The Bertinellis aren't especially bright," **Arturo snorted. **"But they cover their tracks. They scrub evidence. They buy witnesses or make them disappear. This sort of cleanup is too much work for one man, of course, but you could've brought in a crew any time you wanted. You didn't. The rest of the Bertinellis didn't help you because they don't know." **

A bead of sweat ran down Arturo's forehead, across the long scab, and off his chin.

**"You were desperate, so you found an ugly job even other thugs wouldn't touch. It solved all your problems."**

Arturo had been desperate. His dancehall was closed for water damage, work was slow at the fish processing plant, and he had bungled a huge deal that spring selling dry cleaners to an outfit from Central City. His bookkeepers said he had just enough cash to either pay his men or pay the Family's cut. He couldn't afford both. Missing either would ruin him. His boys would jump ship if they didn't get their compensation, and cousin Franco would take away his best gigs or bench him altogether if he didn't add his share to the pot.

**"But you were sloppy. You left the prosecutors plenty of proof, not that they need it. A slaver is the darkest sort of villain. This isn't just a crime, it's an outrage. The warrants will come soon, and the jury will burn you at the stake. You're going to spend the rest of your life behind bars.  
><strong>

"If I was guilty of something, ya lunatic, which I ain't, I have a few friends with-"

****"If you had any real respect in your organization or any favors to trade, you wouldn't be here. And it wouldn't matter if you did. This isn't a con you can fix with bribes or blackmail. **Anyone who comes to your defense will be in the spotlight of the inquisition. Your acquittal would cause riots in the streets. The judge would be lynched. The Slavic community would burn down City Hall." **

The Families looked after their own. No one wanted to lose respect by sharing matters that should be handled privately, but if a member faced a real problem, then there was no hesitation or debate. The Family fell into lockstep until the problem was erased. This was their blood oath. But the oath wasn't absolute. No one felt obliged to save a fool whose mistakes made them all look bad. Loyalty wasn't stupid. The Bertinellis might have been the crudest of the Families, but you could fill a graveyard with the rivals who underestimated them over the years. They wouldn't have earned a place among the Four if they weren't vastly more ruthless and pragmatic than the typical pack of jackals.

**"That kind of notoriety is bad business. Your own cousin won't lift a finger at your trial. I woudn't be suprised if he punishes you himself for keeping secrets. You're a pariah, Arty, and you know it. That's why you're here alone and your wife and children are in hiding - not the behavior of a man who trusts his benefactors.**

Arturo eventually responded in a low voice just short of a snarl. "Why are you here? What do you want?"

"**I want to give you one last choice. Tell me where the students are. Where were they taken after New Mexico?**"

"Where's the choice? Tell you or I eat some teeth? That the choice? Or maybe I get a big nap in a ditch somewhere, but I heard you don't bump off nobody. Besides, why would I know?"

Batman stopped his pacing in front of Arturo's chair.

**"The managers at the tin factory and the mine had no idea where the workers went. You didn't just deliver the captives, you're their agent. You know where they went because you rented them out. Every day those refugees remain in bondage is another scar on your reputation, and their current employer might decide their lives are a liability once news of the case leaks out. Maybe a week with a police interrogator will get you to share, but I don't have time. So this is your choice: tell me where they are now or don't. I won't hurt you either way."**

"_Pff_. Sure."

**"But I will give you some advice. Tell me where they are now, and you might dodge eighteen charges of accessory to homicide, and your proceedings can begin. If the case starts soon, the DA will try you first; their prosecution is nearly ready. That means a Gotham judge, someone you know. You'll probably end up in Blackgate. They have decent visitation rights. Marie and the kids might appreciate that." **

"And if I don't?"

**"Then the investigation drags on. The case happens whether or not the abductees are found, but by then the Justice Department will have priority. That means a hostile courtroom and most likely a sentence to Golgotha Federal Penitentiary upstate. You may have heard of it. You may know, for instance, that among the many notorious inmates are seven members of the OUN, a Ukrainian nationalist group, all serving fifty-year terms for trying to attack the Soviet consulate. They hold a dim view of anyone who oppresses their countrymen. I'm told they have quite a following with the other convicts."**

Arturo's eyes unfocused.

**"You were right when you said I've never taken a life, but your cellmate may not be such a pacifist."**

"You're bluffing. Whatever you think I did, you got no proof."

For a moment, a shadow of Batman's grin returned.** "No, I do. Let me convince you."**

* * *

><p>Three minutes earlier.<p>

Wonder Woman landed deftly on the hood of a fancy Lincoln triple-parked in front of the Twelfth Street Arms with her face puckered at the stench. The air in Gotham was acrid and damp, like the entire city was downwind of a tannery. Wonder Woman could understand pollution easily enough in theory, but she was still getting used to it in practice. At least the air was better on the ground, and it would be better still indoors. That is, unless people were smoking. Burnt tobacco and phlegm were also hard to tolerate. Regardless, she had a job to do.

The receptionist in the lobby was busy smiling at his new twenty-dollar bill when Wonder Woman burst through the entrance in her short blue culottes, red and white boots, red breastplate gilded with an eagle, golden tiara, long silver bracelets, and golden belt carrying a shining cord on her hip. She jogged to the reception desk and leaned over it. "Sir, I need your help!"

The receptionist blinked at her mutely, looked down at his money, and decided he was going back to church this week.


	4. Rising Action

_All claims are DC. Please enjoy. Reviews humbly appreciated._

**Batman 1939: Swimming in the Styx**

**Chapter 4: Rising Action**

* * *

><p>A flock of neighbors clustered around Arturo Bertinelli's apartment door. Some were drawn by the the '<em>thump'<em> of heavy objects hitting the floor. Most were drawn by the screaming. They had arrived in their night clothes carrying rolling pins, canes, shoes, and other domestic weapons. It was that sort of building. When the boldest of the flock, an octogenarian named Gretchen, knocked on the door, there was no answer. A few neighbors tried to yell inside, but no one responded**.** Soon they heard a low, unfamiliar voice in the room, speaking to another occupant. The voice spoke for minutes, but it was too soft and deep for anyone to understand.

The neighbors faced a dilemma. There knew exactly who owned the room (no one else had a brick facade), and they knew that whatever was happening inside was bad. But was it the kind of bad that needed the police? Or was it the kind of bad that definitely should not involve the police? That was the problem with living around wise guys: they had plenty of expectations, but they weren't the type to share. No one published a civilian handbook for this sort of grey area. The mob didn't offer a yearly seminar.

As they debated, the stairwell door was kicked open and Wonder Woman leaped in. Shocking a Gothamite was next to impossible, but she came close. The flock watched her approach at a brisk jog. Wonder Woman stopped in front of them, arms akimbo, and proclaimed, "Don't worry, I'm here to assist."

They stared at her mutely. Someone coughed. After a moment, Gretchen hobbled forward and squinted at her. "Who're you s'posed to be?"

"I'm sorry, this is Mr. Bertinelli's room, yes?"

The flock shared suspicious glances. Gretchen answered, "Maybe."

There was a ripping noise and heavy footsteps inside the apartment. Then a pained moan.

Wonder Woman gave her a look. Gretchen shrugged. "Yeah."

Wonder Woman went to the door and tried to open it. A young man informed her unhelpfully that it was locked. She set her arm and tried again. After a moment of struggle, the latch broke through the strikeplate, and the door swung open. Her audience raised a collective eyebrow. Behind the door she found a barrier of overlapped steel slats. Wonder Woman turned and pointed at it. "Is this normal?" The neighbors shook their heads. Wonder Woman turned back, crouched, and slid her fingers under the edge of a slat. She took a deep breath.

* * *

><p>Forty seconds ago.<p>

"**Your fingerprints match this set on the foreman's satchel. You've also touched this paper I found inside your bookkeeper's trash can, dated the same day the foreman's messenger stopped by your office. It lists a sum of bill denominations. You deposited that same sum three days later at the Manfred Savings and Loan on Union Street. It says so on this bank receipt.**"

"That- that was in a locked box in my study! You were in my house!"

"**Prove it.**"

"You, you- but you're no cop. Yeah, big guy, none of that will be admissible in court! That's tamperin'. How about that, huh?"

Batman gently shook his head. Arturo would have called it pitying if his fingers weren't bent sideways. "**The court will find that due process was followed to the letter, with all evidence the product of routine police work.** **We both know these matters can be arranged.**" The grin appeared again. "**After all, I don't exist.**"

Arturo looked furiously at the papers laid on the end table. He leaped out of his chair and grabbed the pile with his good hand. Then he used his mouth to rip them in half. Then in half again. Then he crumpled the shreds into a ball, dropped it, and stepped on them as hard as he could. Batman watched this effort quietly until Arturo stopped to pant.

"**Those weren't the only copies.**"

Arturo fell to his knees and moaned, his head bent down in exhaustion.

Batman gave him a moment to reflect. "**Convinced yet?**"

"_Si animale sporco_. You can't threaten me, ya lunatic. You don't- You're nobody. You're just nobody."

"**Think it over. I have all night.**"

Batman heard a sharp _creak_ of bent metal and splintered wood. Someone had opened the locked door to the hallway. Forcing a latch through an old interior door frame was simple as far as strongman tricks went. Fortunately for doors, very few people were strongmen. Unfortunately for him, one had apparently joined the bystanders. He mentally shrugged; it was a slight bump in his plan, but ultimately a moot point. The door didn't matter. Batman made a note to check if any neighbors were weightlifters next time.

As he committed this to memory, he heard a much louder noise - a long agonized shriek of straining metal.

Batman turned this time. The latches that locked the barrier to the floor were quivering. He watched slack-jawed.

_That wasn't possible._

The two tempered steel latches were drilled deep into the room's brick foundation. He could hardly fathom the effort it would take to pull them out – at least a thousand pounds of vertical force, maybe two. A car jack might do it eventually, but there was no gap under the barrier to position one. No, something had simply gripped the steel wall and lifted - a feat that would challenge a silver-back gorilla. It rose two inches, then four, then eight. A pair of red boots appeared.

His mind raced, but his thoughts kept crashing into dead ends. Physics was one of Batman's weakest academic disciplines. He had mastered enough for practical uses like chemistry and ballistics, but the more esoteric branches, those strange new ideas about cosmic rays or the nature of time, were never worth his time. He regretted that now. Obscure insights on relativity might be helpful here, because his little Newtonian brain said that what he saw was impossible. He had heard rumors of impossible things in the far corners of the world, some a little too sensible, but he had always been a skeptic. No one could do this. Nothing could do this. Nothing could do this. Logic failed. He broke into a cold sweat.

Arturo Bertinelli had already crawled to the far corner and hid behind the bed. It was his first wise decision that night. The last person who broke into his safe house with their bare hands hadn't been friendly. Arturo watched the steel barrier shake. He saw Batman stare at the door with the static intensity of a starving wolf defending a kill (something he had actually seen once on a hunting trip - the beast had been terrifying). If the rumors were right, Batman was about to do something devastating and unexpected. Arturo held his breath, waiting with morbid anticipation.

The Dark Knight turned and sprinted away through the hole in the wall.

That was unexpected.

* * *

><p>Wonder Woman's body trembled from her shoulders to her knees as she lifted the latches out of their foundation. All the weight was on her fingertips, and she was genuinely concerned that all the lifting would push her feet through the floor. Fortunately, she happened to be standing on the edge of the bricks that fortified the bottom of the apartment. After raising the barrier just over her knees, the deep rods securing the latches ripped out, and the rest slid up like a feather.<p>

She found a small room with a disheveled older man trying to hide behind a bed and a large hole in the wall. The neighbors peered around her in silence. Wonder Woman stepped in. With a cold anger, she saw that his face and clothes were stained with blood, and he was favoring an injured hand. She took a knee beside him.

"Mr. Bertinelli?"

Despite his obvious shock, the man's eyes were sharp. He scrutinized her. "Who wants ta know?"

She respected that. The government was lucky to find such a careful and loyal asset. "Don't worry, I'm with the military." Mindful of the crowd, she leaned in and whispered, "Was the Bat Man here?"

He grimaced. "Just ran off when you broke my door."

"Well, I'm to bring you to safety, let's-"

"Na, na, no. Listen honey, you look set for a brawl. Go after him."

"Sir, I'm-"

"The guy's a public menace. He did this to me laughing, and he said he was gonna do worse all over town!"

She nodded seriously and stood. "Help is coming. Stay safe."

"Run quick, toots."

Wonder Woman ran. The room beyond the hole was much the same, only there were dozens of bricks stacked in front of the door, and the window was open. She looked out into the dark and smell of the night. The window was in the back of the Twelfth Street Arms above an alley. The roof across was ten feet away and ten feet down. She stepped onto the windowsill and peered around. There was some decorative stonework to her left, between her window and next one. Wonder Woman quickly noticed a thin rope tied to a sturdy peak in the decoration. She followed it with her eyes. It was difficult to see in the dark, but the rope stretched loosely across the alley to a chimney on the far roof below.

Wonder Woman leaped, heedless of the frightening drop. She landed nimbly on the the other roof. _Where now?_

Cities were a terribly alien environment, Gotham in particular. She had spent months in Washington, but the nation's capital was a sleepy village compared to this hive. Half the inhabitants seemed either a wretch or a villain, and everything was covered in scum. But she was a huntress, Artemis-blessed, and no mere brute would best her tonight. She squatted and examined the gravel roof. If he came across the rope, he had to have landed very close to the chimney that anchored it. The gravel here was fairly soft and thick. Indeed, Wonder Woman quickly spied a pair of foot-sized depressions, with shallower copies moving ahead. The gait was long: he was either running or eight feet tall. She followed the tracks at a brisk speed, stopping to check the path in short pauses. Between this building and the next was an alley so narrow even a regular man could jump over, and the tracks didn't slow near the edge. She swiftly picked up the trail on the other side. As she grew more confident where the steps headed, she sped up until she covered the distance at an uncanny speed.

But then the roof ended, and the next building had sloped shingles instead of gravel. She leaped up and looked around. There were no more roofs to reach from here, and shingles didn't leave a trail. He could have climbed down in any direction. She hopped to the top of a nearby radio mast. Her Bat Man had a minute's head-start, surely he wasn't too far away. Wonder Woman was now quite a distance from residential Twelfth Street. This was a place of industry and closed for the night. It was more spacious here. The architecture was long and bland. Unlike most of the city, parking lots were plentiful. She knew by the light of the full moon that the roads were wide and empty of pedestrians; only a few trucks passed though.

There seemed to be too much open ground for anyone to hide. A crowded street with a thousand warrens to duck inside would have made pursuit impossible, and the city had an endless supply of them, yet he came this way. Perhaps he feared crowds as much as he feared her. Wonder Woman forced herself to relax and focused her senses. This was the highest point in the vicinity with many clear lines of sight. She soaked in the scenery, priming her eyes to notice any movement.

_There!_ Two hundred yards away, a side door of an unfinished building opened. Wonder Woman stepped off the radio mast, grabbed a drainpipe, slid to the ground, and crossed the distance in seventeen seconds.

* * *

><p>Batman's normal mental state was beyond what most people could experience. He possessed a crystalline clarity that couldn't be shaken or overwhelmed. Most minds worked like a rowboat in a gale. He ordered his thoughts like a set of bookshelves in a quiet room. That was the norm. Batman's current mental state was more like someone stuck in an elevator with a bee hive. He had taken precautions against every possible interference tonight, so of course tonight was when he met the impossible. This was the first time that he had to sweat in his new armor. It made the joints very uncomfortable. Batman cursed the pile of scrap. Not for the discomfort, that meant nothing, but for the burden. He valued agility over every other physical trait, and now he would struggle to place at a high school track meet.<p>

He was so distracted that he momentarily forgot what he was doing. This husk of a building would eventually be a GothCorp frozen food plant. It was in the middle stages of construction, and its disposal room had two industrial-size pipes descending to a low level of the sewers but not yet connected to the machines. The Gotham City underground was easily the deepest and most diverse in the hemisphere. To paraphrase Victor Hugo, Gotham had another Gotham under herself; a city of sewers; which had its streets, its crossings, its squares, its blind alleys, its arteries, and its circulation. The old city had been digging basements, tunnels, mines, drains, bunkers, cisterns, and catacombs for hundreds of years. A traveler could move everywhere if they knew how but wouldn't be going anywhere if they didn't. He wasn't sure what the being at the apartment was capable of - he didn't even know if he was being chased - but if there was one place where he could lose pursuit no matter how strong or fast his pursuer, it was the underground, and these pipes would lead him to the biggest hub in the district.

Batman slid over the stacked conveyor belts and crawled through half-finished walls. In little time he made it to the disposal room. The openings of the two pipes were in the floor, covered with a stack of heavy crates. He pushed, moving the crates at an agonizing pace. Before he could finish, he heard a noise from outside. He disappeared.

* * *

><p>Wonder Woman rammed through the door shoulder-first. It took six steps to slow down. She found herself in some sort of manufactory, pitch dark save for the occasional hole in the roof. She found a switch that turned on a scattering of nearby lights, but it didn't help much. The building had two tall stories and was segmented by many walls, but most of the walls and floor were skeletal, showing the building's viscera in the strange frames of Man's architecture. She could glimpse nearly the length of the interior if it was bright enough to see. Wonder Woman walked ahead, confident that none could slip by her keen senses this close.<p>

* * *

><p>Batman hung from the ceiling in a dark corner like bat. Also like his namesake, he listened intently to his surroundings. Light footsteps walked randomly though the building. Its gait sounded like a woman. Batman remembered the red boots, and his breath caught in his throat. After several minutes, the footsteps neared his hiding place. A humanoid shape soon stepped into the room, each slow footstep a drumbeat in the silence. It passed under a patch of moonlight, and he furrowed his brow in disbelief. Watching above and upside-down, he could see simulacra of arteries on its neck. Its chest region rose and fall as if it breathed. But it couldn't possibly be organic life. It's nasal-form twitched when it passed through dust, and the pupils of its eye-analogues contracted when it stepped into the light. But it couldn't possibly be human. The being glanced around the room. His nerves sparked like firecrackers. Then its eyes crossed over him. An eternity passed. But the being didn't react. It continued around a corner.<p>

Batman waited forty-eight seconds before he dared to draw a breath. Since he first saw the steel barrier rise, Batman's imagination had run wild. He recalled beings from fiction and myth during his escape. If his aggressor had one unnatural power, it might have any of them. All the rules were gone. It might fly. Read minds. Stop his heart with a thought. But now solid lines were returning to the world. Now he knew it couldn't sense his presence in an extraordinary way. It couldn't see in the dark. It couldn't or wouldn't tear down the building to force him out. It was bound by the same gravity. He could work with this. Fiction and myth also said that even the supernatural could be slain. He dropped to the floor.

It was a twelve foot fall. He shifted to make a noiseless three-point landing, a hand and both feet, but he hadn't practiced acrobatics in the armor. His left leg buckled and the metal kneepad struck the cement with an awkward _klunk_.

The footsteps in the far room stopped. Then they started again, fast, loud, and coming his way. He jumped atop a tall spool of wire then wall-kicked to a beam on the ceiling where he could swing up to the second floor. Then he scaled a pillar to the roof. Batman sprinted as a voice behind him yelled, "Stop!" He ignored this and was nearly at the edge of the roof when he sensed motion above. He rolled to the side. The being leaped overhead in a somersault and landed ten feet in front of him. He rose to a low crouch. It turned, placing it's hand-assemblies on its hip-zone.

"Stop."

So it spoke. Batman let his cape drape over his arms and stood in silence.

"The Bat, I presume. You're a public menace, and I'm here to take you to justice."

It had a woman's voice, confident, not hostile, but certainly not happy with him. Whatever lab or dimension it came from made mistakes with the language: it's English had a strong and unfamiliar accent. Batman looked at it for a moment, then he turned and headed towards another edge of the roof.

It took a step forward. "I don't want to hurt you."

He kept walking away. "**Then don't.**"

It fumed and began to jog towards him. Before it could take a third step, Batman turned and, in the time it took the cape to shift aside, threw two batarangs. The being stood its ground. In a blur, both missiles ricocheted off the shiny bracers on its arms. Neither party moved as weapons bounced harmlessly on the metal roof.

It made a small smile. "You can't touch me."

With a flick, Batman produced six more batarangs. The being lifted an eyebrow and raised its arms for a fight. The Dark Knight dashed forward. He threw the three in his left hand then the three in his right. The being blocked the first three with the same uncanny reflexes. The next three blades missed its body by yards. As the being finished deflecting the first set, it realized the batarangs that missed were boomeranging back along three different arcs. The thing pivoted just in time to intercept the boomerangs. Then it turned to face him again, but Batman had already closed the distance. His flying knee drove straight into its breastplate.

Batman discovered that at least the being had the same mass as a real woman. His alloy knee connected squarely with its chest and knocked it flat. Inertia was a beautiful thing. He landed but tripped on his first step. Even lying prone, it had reached back and caught his ankle. The being stood, still holding his ankle in a solid grip. He couldn't shake it, so he used the supported ankle as a anchor and pistoned his other heel to its inner thigh just above its knee. This was a surefire wayto break a normal knee, but he was quickly realizing that he couldn't win this gently, and with an ember of enthusiasm, that he didn't have to.

The being's knee stayed intact, but it winced and let go of him. Batman sprung to his feet and nearly walked into a punch. The volley came fast, as fast as any pugilist he'd faced before, maybe faster. They were the same height, so it had ample reach, and each strike landed like the blunt end of a tire iron - battering his arms and shoulders as he weaved around. The prototype was designed to be hit by tire irons, but every hit still stung. Finally, the being feinted and landed a twitch-quick side-kick to the gut that sent him stumbling backwards, then a high kick that lightly clipped his mouth. This glancing blow flayed a path of skin from the corner of his lip to his ear. Batman finally raised his arms, but the being slipped under and tackled him**, **landing on top. But for all its speed and strength, this was a mistake. Maybe it underestimated him; he didn't care. Arm speed meant much less in a grapple. And its formidable psudeo-muscles had nothing to push against without leverage. Before Batman slid to a stop, he gripped an arm and pulled into a triangle choke. The being seemed to breathe: he could fix that. They rolled as it struggled to pry him off. It hit him repeatedly with its free arm, but it couldn't reach his face, so he held on through the pain, tightening the choke.

It managed to get its feet under it and stood, lifting him bodily into the air, then slammed him down against the roof. He held on. It lifted and slammed him again, then again, then again. He let go on the fourth impact. It stepped hard on his chest. The armor took the blow, but it still shook him like a wave. He rolled away to his feet and tried an uppercut. It caught his wrist in that marble grip. He threw a cross with his other fist, but that wrist was caught too. He leaned back and, with extraordinary flexibility, brought a leg up and kicked the being in the chin three times. With a bark of frustration, it forced him to his knees, then swung him by the wrists into the brick wall of a roof stairwell entrance. It pulled him to his feet against it, pinning his arms up against the wall.

"Yield!"

Batman panted and didn't resist. A membrane of blood covered his teeth from his cut lip and his body was a blanket of bruises. The being's own flawless features had been marred. Its neck was still tinged red from the choke, there were small gashes on its face and limbs, and its hair was dusty and askew. Overall, far less damage then he would expect from a person. He could feel it breathing a touch faster than before. It seemed to gather its composure.

"You will come peaceably, scofflaw. Do you understand?"

The being held his gauntlets firmly against the wall, but it didn't hold his hands. The wrists of the heavy gloves were lined with steel bands that kept their shape under pressure - grasping them wouldn't constrict the cuff openings. The Dark Knight had a well-honed gift for legerdemain; he held his palms rigid and smoothly slipped his hands out. It was another simple slight of hand to drive his thumbs into his captor's eyes.

Whatever it was made of, that still hurt. It roared and thrashed. He grimaced through a blow to his shoulder that cracked the armor plate. Leaning forward, he gouged in further, using the eye sockets as purchase to grip the face with his other fingers. Employing this leverage, he threw its head into the brick wall. The head bounced off in a mist of powdered clay, and he volleyed it back with a punishing elbow strike to the temple.

In the pause between breaths, he marveled that its skin, _her_ skin, felt like any woman's: same weight, same warmth, same follicles, pulse, and texture. He saw that she bled from a new cut on her forehand where his sharp elbow raked her. And it was certainly blood. He knew blood. Maybe some paranormal magic could fake a voice and a mind, but blood? That smell and that heat couldn't be faked. He didn't care how irrational that sounded, he refused to believe it. He couldn't say if she was human, but she was, by any sane taxonomy, a person.

With inhuman speed, she caught her balance and twisted with a perfectly proficient back fist that would have taken off his jaw if he hadn't been waiting for it from the start. He leaned just outside her swing and thrust up a batarang -this one long and thin, more a stiletto than a throwing star. Her momentum sunk the blade into her fist. Incredibly, she kept swinging, ignoring the steel point in her flesh which fell out at its zenith. She threw a left hook, but he was already counterpunching to that arm, stabbing another batarang through her inner elbow, hitting the soft curve under her bicep. This one he twisted, then hastily pulled out to block her right jab. His timing was off, and the weapon fell out of his grasp against her shiny bracer.

The jab staggered him, but he could sense this fierce counter-assault was running out of steam. Incredibly, her eyes seemed basically unharmed, but were bloodshot and unfocused. She was holding her left arm low, suffering the elbow wound. Her next kick was amateur. He let it glance off his ribs as he stepped up to bat. His arms were too close for her to grab or push away. He reached up and slapped her ears sharply, then drew a hand back, turned his shoulder, and smashed the heel of his palm across the side of her nose.

As she spun from the blow, briefly exposing her back, Batman crouched low. In a single motion, he produced another thin batarang from his belt and slammed the point into the soft tendon behind her knee like he was burying a tent stake. Again, her skin felt human, but the flesh underneath was inhumanly tough. Even at that fragile spot, her tendons had the durability of mixed cement: smooth and supple as a muscle but so paradoxically dense that only the most forceful strike with a sharp tool could hope to nick it. But the Dark Knight never lacked for strength. His own mortal tendons strained as he sunk the blade deep and pulled it sideways through the joint. For any human and most large mammals this would instantly collapse the leg, but Batman took no chances. He left the blade and seized her foot and ankle with both hands. Batman stood and stepped back, keeping her off balance, then he torqued the foot around like the handle of a socket wrench.

She made a noise through gritted teeth that might have been a cry. He dropped the sprained ankle, hugged her just above the hips, heaved, and arced backwards into a German Suplex. Her shoulders struck the roof, but he didn't bother looking. He leaped up and sprinted for the edge. Just yards away, his upper body was yanked backwards like a dog on a leash. He landed on his back with his legs in the air. When his vision cleared, he looked down and saw a shimmering golden cord around his chest, over one shoulder and under the other armpit. He rose to a knee and tried to slip it off, but it seemed to cinch with the effort. Another harsh tug from behind pulled him down again.

He saw the woman approach, slow and angry, but with hardly a limp. She held the golden cord that had been looped at her side. Batman squinted at this puzzle. Forget her recovery, how had she snared him? Throwing a rope that far with just a moment to aim was an incredible feat, but to arc over a moving target? The trajectories didn't exist. He crawled backwards on one arm until his shoulder hit the low barrier around the edge of the roof. By then she stood over him. They eyed each other coldly.

"Why did you attack Arturo Bertinelli?"

It sounded as a much a command as a question. Batman tried to respond with something shrewd and deceptive, but he felt a sudden itch in his face and throat. Horrified, Batman realized some foreign presence was soothing his mind and sapping his focus. His lips quivered. Before he knew it, he was speaking.

"**He's a dangerous kidnapper. I was trying to coerce him into revealing where he had taken his victims.**"

Whatever the lady with the lasso was expecting, that wasn't it. Her mouth fell half-open, and she watched him strangely. Batman couldn't have cared less. He was still processing the shock of his outburst. Was he suffering a seizure? Had he been hypnotized?

She finally decided something and spoke again. "What is your name?"

The itch in his face returned, and he felt his hostility being gently smothered. He clenched his jaw, but before he knew it sound slipped out. "**I'm Batman.**"

She rolled her eyes. "What is your given name? What were you called at birth?"

Batman tried to keep it in. His face turned red and his cheeks puffed and his head shook. A vein twitched in his neck. "**... Bbbb ... Bbbbbbbrrrrr ...**"

"Yes?"

He raised a trembling hand up, as if pleading. "**Bbbbrrrrrrrrrr ...**"

"What is it?"

He turned the hand and struck himself in the throat. His voice collapsed to a choking gargle.

The woman stared in astonishment. She pulled tight on the cord. "No! Speak!"

He grinned as he choked, showing the blood on his teeth. She could have sworn he was trying to laugh. The woman lifted him up by his collar. He spit in her eye then frog-kicked off her body, sailing over the edge of the roof.


End file.
